


Where We Find Ourselves

by joongz



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Band Fic, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, LGBTQ Themes, Letters, M/M, Making Out, Parties, Skating, Underage Drinking, smoking weed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29878032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joongz/pseuds/joongz
Summary: When Wooyoung is sixteen he realizes he's in love with San, and a tumultuous journey begins of self discovery, of mistakes, of heartache and heartbreak.Mingi is also sixteen when he realizes something: spontaneously joining Hongjoong's band might be the best or worst thing he's ever done, he's still unsure if meeting Yunho is a blessing or a curse.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Where We Find Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!
> 
> i've been working on this for a couple of months already, but decided i couldn't wait any longer to post it. 
> 
> updates will be slow so please be patient with me. tags will update as chapters do.
> 
> Happy reading!!💛

_Dear…_ ****

_What do you call a friend you’ve lost in time? One you miss; one you want back; one you don’t want to see again; one you once wished could have been more, but then you shake your head, thinking about the already thin threads that held your friendship together._

~~_Dear friend. Dear you. Dear Yunho._~~ _Dear blank,_

_Blank. All it has come to is a blank._

_A blank when I go to the grocery shop near my apartment, where I see and I see, no escape from the past, and I remember and remember so many things._

_A blank when I look at the ocean, at a stray cat, see a car’s headlight flash in the periphery of my eyes, at the constellations, at a mop of dark brown hair… A blank when I hear the strum of a guitar, my mind taking me back to that small band practice room, your careful and inexperienced hands plucking at an old guitar’s strings._

_A blank in so many places now._

_How do you write to a friend you didn’t want to lose and in that effort you lost him?_

_Sorry. Let me start again._

* * *

There is the post-rain atmosphere first, with its deep puddles over forgotten concrete, lights glistening on the wet street. An airplane passes by overhead, only a distant rumble of an engine, carrying lives from one somewhere to another. Otherwise, an absolute quiet reigns in the narrow street, only the drip of long fallen raindrops sliding down from store signs and balconies. A spring downpour, so very different from an autumn downpour, a scent of sweet promises and a chill of warmth in it.

Two boys stand underneath the logo of a washing center: it glows brightly, changing their faces from somber to _something else_. The logo, its distinctive white and red, will burn itself into Wooyoung’s retinas years from then, never to be forgotten, as neither will be the boy standing in front of him, or the burning taste of smoke and sweet soda on his tongue. Never to be forgotten the imprint of a hand on his chest, pushing him back and back and back, the flatness of a wall never feeling so sharp between his shoulder blades. Pain shooting through him like a phantom limb, tingling with a faint memory.

Wooyoung learns the meaning of want and staggering fear the same night: staring into the eyes of his best friend. It surges out from the depths of his chest, carving itself out with a knife until he’s bleeding and breathing, and understanding the meaning of bright, _bright_ hurt. Hurt that will become so visible and acknowledged any time he feels happiness, because then he has so much more to lose. Comfort, peace, happiness all feel so much realer and palpable when his heart bleeds and beats in his chest. He is alive. Alive.

 _Alive_ , he screams.

His best friend reaches out his hand, punching Wooyoung playfully on his shoulder, as he so often does, but in that post-rain atmosphere, under the white and red neon lights of the washing center, it feels like the sharpest of wounds.

“You’re the best, Wooyoung,” San says, grinning with that ever present mischief—the one that has gotten them into so much trouble when they were children, only enabled by Wooyoung’s nose for chaos. “You’re the best wingman ever!”

“Yeah,” he breathes, in a distorted sense of reality. “Yeah, no problem, San.”

“What’s the long face for, man? The night was a total success! We’ll both have dates for the dance.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung repeats, smiling a grimace. He’s never been good at hiding his true feelings, but it has never become his downfall in this way, it has never betrayed him this way.

San sighs, exasperated, the way he only does when he knows Wooyoung is hiding something and he isn’t going to venture for the answer, pretending he isn’t even interested to make it easier for Wooyoung to answer. “What is it?” he asks, head tilted and hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets.

Can Wooyoung say it? Say that he doesn’t want to go to the dance with someone he barely knows, say that he wants to taste San’s lips again, say that he wants to know what San’s skin feels like under his fingertips, say that he wants San’s hands to explore the dips and lows of his body, all the hidden corners no one has ever touched… Can he utter them?

“I’m just wondering…” he responds vaguely.

“Wondering about what?” San inquires, always curious, never letting Wooyoung have his secrets.

And Wooyoung never was one for secrets, but this one feels too big, even for him. He can still feel the shame and guilt swallowing him that morning after he dreamt of San kissing him senselessly, both boys sprawled out on the sheets of Wooyoung’s bedroom, dark posters of alternative rock bands covering up the white walls, the smell of boyish youth and mint gum surrounding them, making the dream so much realer, the need coursing Wooyoung’s body waking him up with sweat clinging to his skin.

“The other night,” he tries, hoping San catches the meaning in his hesitance. “The other night at Yunho’s party,” he elaborates a little further, one foot in, one foot dangerously close to the abyss.

San’s face doesn’t change, the white and red dance across his tan skin, his eyes so brilliant. The sight is heart wrenching, a wave of want splashes the shores of Wooyoung’s mind, and he searches for meaning in the ghost of their first shared kiss.

A bet; a drunken, stupid, youthful bet. San’s lips hot and wet, electrifying on Wooyoung’s own, a drizzle of a yet unknown want hushing over his skin. And he wishes for it again, so badly. To feel it all anew, to reaffirm, to reassure.

“What about it?” San asks nonchalantly.

Wooyoung feels exposed, raw, but he doesn’t stop there. “I was wondering what it would feel like.”

The look San gives him says, _go on, go on then, tell me._

“What it would feel like without the drunken haze. If… If you’ll taste the same.”

San can’t recompose himself quickly enough, between the white and red neon flashes uncertainty. In his brown eyes flickers confusion and curiosity at once, the ‘why?’ shaping his lips already, but nothing comes out. He stands and stares at Wooyoung speechlessly—which isn’t an easy accomplishment, usually San is a fountain of words. Wooyoung is more of a carefully structured string of words that he takes back if needed.

The dream plays in his mind on loop. The post-rain atmosphere, which he loves so dearly, courses through him. The neon lights surround them like a halo. It’s just them, nothing for Wooyoung to be scared of; San has never been someone that installed fear in him or incertitude.

“I…” he begins, his heart beating fast, and feels cold as his whole being is shaking, a raindrop hits him on his cheek, “I want to kiss you again.” Another raindrop hits him in his hair, sliding down his temple seconds later.

San’s lips part, the ‘why?’ hanging from them, but instead he says, “Okay.”

It takes Wooyoung a moment to understand that single word. “O-Okay?” he repeats as would Yunho when he doesn’t get an innuendo and his face scrunches up in utter confusion.

San shrugs painfully uncaringly. “Sure. I don’t see why not. It’s not like it means anything. It’s just a kiss.”

_It’s just a kiss._

“Right,” Wooyoung breathes out, his body still shaking and cold, only worsening by the drizzling rain. He already knows the pain that’ll follow him into his dreams. _It’s just a kiss._ It’s so much more for him, he’s slowly realizing that. “Right. Just a kiss.”

San tilts his chin up, his eyes narrowed as he stares at Wooyoung, raindrops heavy on his eyelids. 

“R-Right now?” Wooyoung squeaks out once he realizes San is waiting for him to come forward and do the first step.

He doesn’t remember how he did it at Yunho’s party, his body and mind numb from alcohol, a sense of disconnection between himself and the world surrounding him. He knows he did the first step then too, brave and over confident, ready to prove everyone wrong, do the stupid bet. His body went still, his mind suddenly clear, as his lips held a taste of revelation, self-discovery. He pulled away, all party-goers’ eyes on them, and someone whooped loudly—probably Yunho—but Wooyoung will never forget the burn in his chest, the pull in his abdomen. 

_The more_ . _The need._

Now he stands in front of San again, rain falling all around them, cold on Wooyoung’s ever growing hotter skin. Hesitantly, he shuffles forward. All awkward movements like he’s just now learned how to walk. San is taller than him, having gone through his growing spurt last summer. Wooyoung has to walk around him, up the steps of the building entrance, standing now safely underneath the porch, no more raindrops are hitting him. San is still getting wet, but he doesn’t move, his eyes fixated attentively on Wooyoung’s every move.

With his hands by his sides, balled into tight fists to keep them from shaking too badly, exposing him of his nerves, he stares into San’s eyes, white and red reflecting in them. Wooyoung sways forward, breathing shallowly, and stops inches from San’s face, his gaze dropping. His best friend’s lips: a treasure, an adventure, a miracle. He looks up, but San’s eyes are on Wooyoung’s lips. His best friend’s eyes: the mirage of want in them.

At last, Wooyoung closes the gap, shutting his eyes close tightly, colorful sparks flying behind them. It reminds him of those times San and him would sit in front of Wooyoung’s dad’s laptop, the Windows Media player on, some song playing, colors bursting in interesting patterns. It’s the same not, but the only music he hears is the rain, and his own erratic heartbeat. 

The first few seconds, the kiss is all too awkward, their rain-wetted lips cold and warm, just pressed together in the most lustless way imaginable. Wooyoung wonders if perhaps that want he felt remains only an illusion. He doesn’t feel the desperate want of his dream, he doesn’t feel his heart burn.

Then, out of the rain, San’s hands come towards him, startling him. They settle softly on Wooyoung’s cheeks, and he’s being pulled forward, nearly slipping on the wet steps. San angles his face to the side, _kissing_ Wooyoung. It’s not tentative or chaste, his lips are parted and the kiss is almost too much. Wooyoung responds the best way he can, his own lips falling apart. And there it is: electricity spreads out through him, his heart burning and tingling, a familiar tug in his abdomen. He presses forward fervently, need shooting through him, he wants more.

Their kiss transforms into something deep and open mouthed, similar to the one they shared at Yunho’s party, but this time Wooyoung’s body and mind aren’t numb, he feels _everything_ going on. His fists come loose as the electricity reaches them, he moves them around San’s waist, holding him, clinging onto him, making sure he’s there, he’s real.

He squints through his eyes: San is there, his own eyes closed, he looks beautiful. Wooyoung lets his eyelids fall shut again, angling his face so he can kiss him better. Daringly, he passes his tongue over San’s bottom lip, eliciting a breathless gasp. He feels a shiver in response, which his hands capture, and he tightens his grip on San’s waist. 

Consumed by their kiss, Wooyoung presses forward more, slipping on the steps. He falls against San, who ends up on the wet pavement, Wooyoung on top of him. They’re an entangled mess of limbs and racing hearts. The spring downpour is back, heavy and loud, drenching them within seconds. The heat on Wooyoung’s skin extinguishes immediately. 

San lets out a laugh. “Smooth, Wooyoung, real smooth,” he says, sitting up. Gently, he pushes Wooyoung off him.

Momentarily, Wooyoung is at loss of words. He’s gotten his reaffirmation, his reassurance. He’s terrified, but this is _San_ , his best friend. Shaking his head, Wooyoung pushes San playfully.

“Shut up!”

“So, did that answer your question?”

“What question?” Wooyoung asks, confused.

“If I taste the same,” San clarifies shamelessly. He seems unfazed. Wooyoung himself still doesn’t know where he begins, where he ends.

 _No_ , he thinks. San didn’t taste of sweet alcohol and paprika flavored chips. He tasted of something Wooyoung couldn’t name, remnants of sugary soda, and the downpour. And he knows if he ever kisses him again, he’ll taste differently anew. Wooyoung will never get enough.

What he says instead is, “Yeah, you should _really_ brush your teeth more often.”

San scoffs in offense, protesting, “Hey! You were the one who wanted to kiss me!”

Wooyoung shrugs, pretending he isn’t affected in the slightest. He gets up, reaching out his hand for San to take, and hauls him up. “Less complaining. I’m cold and wet as fuck, I need a warm shower.” He jerks his chin at the building, leaving the rest of his demand up to interpretation.

San looks up at the tall building, the white and red neon lights bright on his face now, trapped in the raindrops on his face. Hesitance flickers through his eyes.

“My mom’s home,” he whispers, completely different from the boy he usually portrays: carefree and confident. But this is a version of San Wooyoung knows very well too, this scared and ashamed boy, hiding the darkness of his home and family from everyone. Everyone with the exception of Wooyoung.

“I’ll be quick. Just give me some dry clothes, and I’ll be on my way.”

San nods. He pulls out his house keys, unlocking the door. Number 39, the faded lamp flickers weakly as the door falls shut behind them. Number 39: another memory that will carve itself into Wooyoung’s mind years from then.

“She’s probably asleep, but just in case, let’s be quiet,” San tells him as he pushes the key into the apartment’s lock, turning it very slowly. The _click_ doesn’t resonate any quieter despite his carefulness.

“I know,” Wooyoung says, as he always does, reassuring San. Wooyoung doesn’t see much of the apartment, not like when San’s mom isn’t home and they get to be free. 

He sees the scattered state of the kitchen: unwashed dishes filling the sink, carefully hidden brown and green bottles lining the floor—but Wooyoung knows where to look for them, so he always sees them—a trash can spilling with food. Rage and sadness fill him as he averts his gaze, following San into his bedroom. Wooyoung manages to peek briefly into the other bedroom, where an undistinguishable shape lies on the bed, the window’s blinds pulled down. The sound of soft snoring filters toward them.

San closes the door of his bedroom, his gaze lost and on edge. Unlike Wooyoung’s room, the walls in San’s room are pale yellow and bare, his bed is covered in simple, one color sheets, dull and washed out. A secondhand night table stands to its left, a piece of cardboard under one of its legs to stabilize it. Scattered objects lie on the nightstand—a forgotten school report, two used pen, hastily scribbled notes in the middle of the night between dreams, a half used package of valerian pills, a polaroid depicting Wooyoung and San at age eleven, the endless beach at their feet. Opposite from the bed stands San’s closet, always open with a colorful mess of clothes—oversized t-shirts once belonging to San’s dad, washed out hoodies and sweatpants, and the occasional button up. 

San pulls out a pair of sweatpants and one of the hoodies, and hands them to Wooyoung.

“You can come sleep at mine,” Wooyoung offers as he undresses.

San stands still for a second, just staring at Wooyoung’s half naked state. Their kiss suddenly manifests between them in the form of a thick and palpable tension. It’s strange, Wooyoung thinks. He’s kissed people before, but there never was this intimacy to it, he feels weirdly shy and exposed.

“No. It’s okay. I need to clean the kitchen anyway. I don’t want her to have to deal with it in the morning, she’ll be tired then,” San tells him.

“Okay.” 

Wooyoung hesitates, his wet clothes balled together in his hands. He wants to say something, about San’s mom, about their kiss, about this sudden and strange tension, but he doesn’t. He attempts a genuine smile—which he knows he fails at—and nods curtly.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” San whispers back, his eyes fleetingly hushing over Wooyoung. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

* * *

_Dear Yunho,_

_I missed you. How have you been?_

_Do you remember the day we first met: I, with my scraped knees, and you, with your toothless smile; warm concrete under our feet?_

_You approached me with a careless and easy walk, probably because you were ten and didn’t know. You towered over me, your shadow so brutally large over me; threatening, I thought for a moment, then, protection. I squinted against the bright sun right behind you, your face submerged in its own shadows._

_You asked, “Can I borrow your skateboard?”_

_I remember thinking you were a little naive; couldn’t you see the scrapes on my knees, the tears sticking to my cheeks…?_

_But I replied, “Yes.”_

_Not because I really wanted to, but because I was humiliated. Humiliated about my scraped knees, about the imprint I could still feel between my shoulder blades of that boy that had pushed me, about my fall that you had witnessed—in its full glory. Humiliated about who I was, which I didn’t know at the time yet. I didn’t know the word, I didn’t know it was a thing. I didn’t know anything._

_How could I? We were ten. We both didn’t know, and at the same time, we knew already because if we hadn’t known we wouldn’t have met years later, during Pride. Our pride barely survived on the warm concrete._

_But those boys, they had known. Are we taught first what to hate than what to love?_

_I watched you skate while I sat still on the concrete. You weren’t any good at it; it brought a confused smile to my lips. I wondered if you only pretended to know how to skate to distract me from my fall, because when you were done, you returned me my skateboard awkwardly; you didn’t quite know how to hold it. Like someone holds a child or a dog who’s never held them before, with an incredible gentleness to it that is so dangerous._

_You asked, “Feeling better?” Since the tears on my cheeks were dry now, the scrapes on my knees almost forgotten, the sky a graying blue._

_I shrugged—the words couldn’t get past my lips, I was hurt still, but it weren’t the scrapes that hurt me—then, I said, “Sure. It’s just some scratches. It’s part of skating.”_

_“I know,” you said so surely. You introduced yourself with a name I would never forget. “Yunho.”_

_“Mingi,” I told you, though you hadn’t asked._

_You helped me up, helped me wobble all the way to the bus station, where you sat with me until the headlights of my bus arrived. You helped me forget the imprints between my shoulder blades, like chopped off wings. Inside, I saw my face in the bus’s window, where yours was staring back at me from outside. It was a strange moment, I recall it so visibly. I’m not sure why I do._

_Maybe because in seeing myself I still saw you._

_When I got home, my mother fussed over my scraped knees. She prohibited me to go back to the skatepark. I never told her that I was pushed, that I was called names and slurs. I never told her. At first because of the shame I felt, then, because I didn’t want her to worry._

_Her choice delayed our eventual second meeting for some years, and by then we were both different; but that first meeting on the concrete had shaped us, inevitably and individually._

_It’s ironic, don’t you think? How ironic, that I met love and fear the same day._

* * *

Heavy bass beats through Wooyoung’s veins even as he stands at the gates of the school’s gym hall. He’s dressed in some black jeans he bought last second because his mom and sister insisted he couldn’t dress with his washed out, ripped jeans, and an elegant button up that once belonged to his sister, before she’d come out. It’s a little too wide on Wooyoung, he doesn’t share the same broad and tall physique as his sister, but with some help of her he makes it work. The tight tie around his neck belongs to his dad, who was delighted to help Wooyoung with the over complicated knot.

Jittery, he stands outside their school, waiting for his date alone. San was meant to arrive half an hour ago, so they could wait together, but now Wooyoung is alone, awkwardly holding small talk with San’s date, who looks positively annoyed.

“I swear to God, Wooyoung, if San’s ditching me, I’ll never talk to him again. This is the worst!” Yeeun complains, frowning. “ _He_ asked _me_ out. I can gladly go dance with my friends.”

“No, wait!” Wooyoung says with panic. “He wouldn’t ditch you. He was really happy you agreed to go to the dance with him. I swear!”

Yeeun studies him, then scoffs. “Whatever.”

“I’m really sorry. He’s usually not like this,” Wooyoung tries.

A car pulls up, out steps Gahyeon: she wears a dark dress with a wide skirt, deep blues and grays, matching Wooyoung’s dark colors, a black ribbon holding her hair up. She waves at him with a wide grin.

Yeeun lets out a sigh, rubbing her forehead in irritation. “Alright, I’ll wait some more, but _only_ because I like you, Wooyoung. If it weren’t for the fact we’ve been friends forever, I’d ditch you, and I’d convince Gahyeon to ditch you too.”

“Fair.”

“Hi.” Gahyeon gives Wooyoung an awkward hug. They aren’t very close: they share the same AP Math class and often compare results, but never have spoken much beyond that. He has the feeling they’re both attending the dance more out of social obligation than anything else. “Where is San?” she asks, glancing at Yeeun.

“I have to clue,” she answers sharply, glancing at Wooyoung meaningfully.

“I-I’ll try to call him again,” Wooyoung promises, pulling out his phone, but once again no one picks up. It makes him nervous; San never ditches him. San never leaves him in the dark.

“I’m tired of waiting,” Yeeun says. “Seriously, Wooyoung, what the hell?”

“I don’t know what happened. He never ignores me like this.”

Gahyeon and Yeeun eye him for a brief moment before they exchange a look, the latter holding exasperation and annoyance in her eyes.

“ _Your_ date actually showed up,” Yeeun tells him. She puts her arm around Gahyeon protectively, but her eyes stay on Wooyoung, a thousand words in them. “Don’t make her wait, that’s rude. I’ll wait some more for San, but if he doesn’t come in ten, I’m hanging out with my friends.”

Wooyoung parts his lips, but he knows Yeeun is right. San’s lost his chances with her now. He wonders what all the fuss was about in the first place, urging Wooyoung to play wingman, only to end up ditching her at the dance. With a sigh he nods, and offers Gahyeon his hand. She takes it, smiling sweetly.

“Do you really not know why San’s not coming?” she asks once they’re inside the gym hall, waiting for a bored senior to take their jackets.

Wooyoung shakes his head. “I really don’t. I’m as surprised as you,” he tells her. _And worried, so incredibly worried._ “I’m sure he’s just been held up at home or something.”

“My mom spent half an hour taking pictures of me.” She laughs embarrassingly.

Wooyoung hums. He thinks of San’s disarrayed apartment, the hidden bottles, the sleeping dragon. He thinks of the weariness with which San carried himself these past days, always on the edge of the blade, ready to leap, to fight, to retreat. He swallows, hoping San only missed his bus and forgot to bring his phone.

“Do you want to dance?” Gahyeon asks him, hopeful.

Wooyoung hesitates. Dancing’s always been more of a San thing than a Wooyoung thing. Over time he’s managed to learn a few things from San, but he is nowhere near his friend’s control and gracefulness. Wooyoung doesn’t really have a thing aside from studying and hanging out with his friends.

Seeing Gahyeon’s eagerness makes him nod though. “Sure.”

She beams at him, dragging him to the center of the dancefloor, where many other teenagers are moving to the DJ’s music. Even some teachers are swaying to the beat as they survey the students. Awkwardly and asking for permission first, Wooyoung puts his hands on Gahyeon’s waist, her own arms around his neck. 

“Um,” he starts intelligently. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

She snorts, glancing down at his feet. “I am very aware of it. Just follow my steps.”

“Okay.”

At first it’s terrible and Wooyoung steps on Gahyeon’s shoes more times than not, but after a while he begins to relax and smooth into the music. Gahyeon’s advice and words of encouragement help as well. She keeps laughing and shooting him dazzling smiles. He wonders if he likes her, she’s charming and beautiful. 

Suddenly, Gahyeon lets out a gasp, hiding behind Wooyoung, her face a bright red. She keeps glancing at something over Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Wooyoung wonders, already turning around, but she grabs the back of his head to prevent him from doing so.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “I, um, just saw my ex.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shoot up at that.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “I… You’re very nice, Wooyoung, but I don’t—I don’t like you like _that_ ,” she admits. “God, I’m terrible, telling you this while we’re at the dance.” She steps away, her hands dropping. Wooyoung lets her go too. “I’m sorry.”

All Wooyoung feels is relief, and immediately feels guilty about it.

“It’s okay, Gahyeon,” he tells her. “I’m sorry too. I think… I think there’s someone else for me too.”

She searches his face, confused at first, until finally understanding flickers through her face. “Oh.” Then, her eyes widen. “ _Oh_.” Perhaps too much understanding as her eyes turn kind. “It’s San, isn’t it?” Wooyoung swallows, feeling utterly exposed and at once embraced by Gahyeon’s gentle expression. “It’s okay,” she continues. “I completely understand what it’s like to be in love with your best friend.”

“You do?” he croaks out.

She laughs. “Yeah. Tragically, I do.” She steps up to him, her arms coming around his shoulders again. “Let’s make the best out of the night, shall we?”

Wooyoung nods, feeling relieved and strangely free, a weight lifting off his chest. There’s no name for it, not a complete affirmation of what he’s feeling, but there’s a solidarity between them he’s never felt before. A quiet, mutual understanding and compassion.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he admits after a while. “I didn’t even really realize until recently.”

Gahyeon grins. “Welcome to the club. There’s a few of us, if you ever want to come hang out with us during lunch, we hang out under the willow tree near the cafeteria,” she offers with a one shoulder shrug. “You’d fit right in.”

“I’ll think about it,” he tells her. He didn’t even consider the fact that there are more like them at school, enough to recognize one another and hang out together during lunch. He isn’t sure he is ready for it yet, he’s barely admitted it to himself. He’s too scared to give it a name, to pick a label, he feels too young and inexperienced still.

“No pressure.”

Gahyeon looks at something behind Wooyoung, a smile playing on her lips. Seconds later a warm hand brushes the back of Wooyoung’s neck, tapping him twice. He shudders imperceptibly, already knowing who’s calling for his attention.

“May I steal him away for a second?” San asks.

“Of course!” 

Yeeun presses her lips together. “Seriously? Boys—” Her sentence gets lost as San drags him away from the dancefloor, but Wooyoung can see that Yeeun isn’t too fazed, immediately talking to Gahyeon. She’s always been hard to read, ever since they were children playing in the sandbox together.

“What took you so long?” Wooyoung inquires once they’re standing at the sidelines of the gym hall, where the crowd is thinned out.

San scratches the back of his neck. “The usual,” he says as if it’s nothing. He seems entirely relaxed, an easy smile playing on his lips. Wooyoung only then notices his dilated pupils, he leans in close, catching a whiff of familiar, sweet scent. 

“You bumped into Yunho, didn’t you?”

“Yup!”

“You should have told me! Or Yeeun. We were waiting,” Wooyoung says, mildly annoyed now. “I was… I was worried.”

San deflates, his ease turning cold. A bothered look crosses his face, his eyebrows furrowed. “Chill. I wasn’t even that late, Jesus!”

“Still, you should have told one of us at least,” Wooyoung reasons. Uselessly so. He knows how San gets when he smokes, he knows what provokes him to smoke, he knows San’s reaction when someone tries to tear that peace and quiet away from him. Whereas Wooyoung and Yunho are prone to get paranoid or anxious, San is one to get defensive and angry. That anger that’s buried deep inside him, covered by layers, becomes more easily tapped into, like a dormant leyline that’s been discovered. 

“You worry too much,” San tells him. _And you don’t worry enough_ , Wooyoung thinks bitterly. “Yeeun was chill about it.”

Wooyoung is surprised by that. “She was?”

“Yeah.” San shrugs. “We have a mutual understanding.”

“What does that mean? You have a ‘mutual understanding’? That sounds shady as hell…”

San cracks a smile. “Nothing, doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re the only one worried.” He puts his arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders, drawing him in. “Look, relax, Wooyoung. Enjoy the dance and your date.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of Gahyeon.

With a glance at her, Wooyoung sees she’s entertained, talking to three other girls Wooyoung has seen around school but doesn’t know personally. Yeeun is still with them, her arms crossed, a slight frown between her brows, but she if she’s angry at San for making her wait and ditching her seconds later, she’s not showing it. 

Gahyeon tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes catching Wooyoung’s. She grins, winking at him, both of her eyes shutting close so it looks more like she’s blinking. Wooyoung laughs.

‘Go on,’ she mouths, waving her hand discreetly at San.

“I see you get along with Gahyeon,” San observes.

Wooyoung glances at him: San’s leaning now against the wall, his arms crossed, that easy smile is back, the coldness percolating out of his eyes. Quickly, as if nothing happened, he’s Wooyoung’s San again, the boy he knows so well, the boy he is falling in love with. It’s staggering, this quick change. He should be used to it by now, but it catches him off guard tonight. Perhaps because of their kisses, because of Wooyoung’s recent discovery.

As he watches San quietly, the strings holding Wooyoung’s heart are moving frantically. A puppeteer with an unstable hand.

“What?” San’s eyebrows raise, a little bit of arrogance in the gesture.

Wooyoung can feel his cheeks warm up, his stomach is doing somersaults, a funny song courses through his veins. “Nothing,” he croaks out, then smiles to make himself feel less strange. This is San, there’s no reason for him to fall off the rail, to be this nervous and on edge. “Nothing at all.”

San scoffs. “You know I’m not buying that. I can see something’s on your mind.” He hesitates, shifting his position slightly so he’s leaning into Wooyoung; his voice lowers when as he continues, “Lately, there seems to be _a lot_ on your mind. You’ve been a little distant. What happened? Did I do something?”

Wooyoung is staggered by their sudden proximity, San’s lips only a tantalizing distance away. A slight tilt of his own head, a tug at his heart, a trip over his own feet, and they’d be kissing again. When did kissing his best friend suddenly become so important to him?

“I’m—fine,” Wooyoung breathes out, staring right into San’s eyes, whose pupils are dilated. They look so dark, the disco lights of the school dance hush through them. It reminds Wooyoung of their kiss under the spring downpour, when the neon lights of the washing center were in them. “Nothing happened. You didn’t do anything,” he assures him.

San doesn’t move as if he’s frozen, staring at Wooyoung. Then he leans back abruptly, shaking his head. “If you say so.” He watches the crowd in the gym hall briefly before his eyes fall on Wooyoung again, he brushes his arm gently. “But you’d tell me, right? If something changed between us? If I did something?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, though he isn’t sure if it’s the truth. He isn’t sure if something hasn’t already changed between them. “The same goes for you,” he adds belatedly. “You would tell me if something happens, right?”

“Of course!” San exclaims, laughing. “We’re best friends, Wooyoung. We tell each other stuff.”

It would be only years from then that Wooyoung realizes they both were lying that nigh. That summer, when San turns seventeen, the very wish he has that night during the dance, to kiss San fervently, comes true, but not in the way he thinks. The ardent behind their kiss is provoked by disagreements and fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this first chapter^^ lmk what you think!!
> 
> -jack💛


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